A blin. Blin? Yes, a blin. Just a blin. Of course, I heard about it. I know what it is. Have I ever eaten a blin? No. I guess no. Certainly no. No blin. Never blin. Neither blin nor blin. So I don't know what it is. I know only the word blin. I know only the notion blin. Maybe even only a part of this notion. I read blin and nothing happens. My inner ear hears a cluster of phonemes evoking no image. Only some very vague associations. A kind of noodle? Of pancake? Stuffed or not? A sort of paté? Maybe a strange doughnut . . . .

I will order blins. They will bring me some blins, I will taste the blins and I will know. Really? Will I know what it is? Maybe I will go to the kitchen to see how a blin is being made. Then I will come back home and make a blin by myself and thus I will learn much more about blins. I will make a giant blin, I will go inside it and explore it! I will be inside a thing that is called blin . . . . . . . .
While I'd like to enter blin. Blin. Blin. Blin. Dublin. Lublin. Dęblin. Norblin. Do they make blins in Dublin? And in Dęblin? More likely in Dęblin that in Dublin. Who knows .... Mind: Dublin => Dough Blin . . . . . Maybe blins are made in Norblin? Huge iron blins. One thousand ton blirons!
What a blinkary!